the one with the friends reference
by andawaywego
Summary: "You can see it. Quinn standing in front of you, as close as she can get without touching you and saying, 'Are you attracted to me'" Faberry. Post-season six.


**A/N:** this was written for day one of the final Faberry week—second chances.

it's set after season six, but before the 'five years later'.

mentions of Finchel.

…

 _the one with the friends reference_

 _.._

You and Quinn aren't friends when you help her move into her new apartment two weeks after you and Mr. Schuster lead the New Directions to another win at nationals, after you return to New York.

She says as much, when you're sitting on a box beside her in her new living room once everything has been lugged in from her car and you agree because, really, it's none of your business why Puck didn't come to help her move.

Why it had to be Blaine and Kurt and Santana and Brittany.

It wasn't fair of you to ask.

Still, it stings a bit, when she says, "I didn't think to, Rachel. We're not really friends."

It still feels like a cheap shot.

Because you've never really been friends, but at least you used to be not-really-friends who occasionally communicated—who texted and emailed and made tentative plans to visit each other without ever following through.

You'd told her when things with Finn officially ended at the start of your freshman year, so you'd like to think that you would have responded well if she'd decided to tell you when her and Puck had broken up.

But she didn't.

"Why is that?" you ask, feeling brave, and she gives you a smile that leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

Kurt and Blaine laugh from across the room and Brittany and Santana are giggling as they feed each other pieces of take out.

"That's how it's always been," is the answer you get and you try to drown the burn it fills your chest with by drinking the rest of your bottled water without stopping.

You almost argue with her, but have neither will nor proof, so you don't.

It would be easier if you could convince yourself that it's just not worth it.

But it's Quinn and she's been a staple in your life even when she'd been drifting in and out of it.

And you've just sort of always assumed that she felt the same way.

Clearly, you were wrong.

.

When you leave an hour later with the other four, she hugs everyone goodbye but you and you can't even bring yourself to blame her.

She makes a joke about not having enough room in her car for all of you, so you have to squeeze into another taxi to get to the train station.

.

"What crawled up your ass, Berry?" Santana asks when you're sitting in the train, hurdling across the Connecticut countryside at sixty-two miles an hour.

With your head leaned against the window, you say, "Nothing."

Santana scoffs and now even Kurt and Blaine are drawn out of the bubble of their own conversation to listen to the exchange.

"You know, if you were half as good at acting as you think you are, I might have believed that," she says and you glare at her, but know that you look silly—the side of your face pressed into the glass, making your left eye's vision blurry. "You've been weird all day."

You sigh. "Why do you care?"

Santana seems to consider this for a moment, twisting her mouth to the side in mock thought.

It's fair game, though, because you and Santana haven't talked—really talked without insulting each other—in so long that you can't even remember the last time it happened.

It isn't as if you've seen her since you moved to New York—since the wedding.

You'd actually completely forgotten that her and Brittany were both living here now.

Until Kurt and Blaine informed you at dinner the night before of all four of their plans to help Quinn.

They'd asked you to tag along and you'd agreed because you'd been spending the last few days simply drifting around without accomplishing anything.

With your fathers guilt-fighting over who can take care of you better, your financial situation is better than it's ever been. It's not like you have a job to run off to, so you'd agreed.

"Hmm…I really don't, I guess. But we have a whole hour and a half on this thing and I like to keep busy."

You consider telling them—entertain the thought for a few seconds—and maybe it's better to just ask, maybe it's better not to keep it bottled up. Because at least they'll be honest.

"Were Quinn and I ever friends?" you ask in a rush of air that the question just sits on top of for a few moments as your companions stare at you.

And then Santana laughs and Brittany frowns and Kurt and Blaine exchange a confused look.

"What's funny?" you ask.

"Of course not," Santana says.

You look to Kurt and Blaine for help, for reassurance that you hadn't dreamt up those amicable looks and interactions towards the end of your exposure to Quinn, but they don't even make eye contact.

"What do you mean? Of course we were," you counter, the set of your jaw fierce. "She sent me flowers on opening night! Santana, she came with you to talk me out of that student film. She came back to Lima last year just because I called her, remember? Are you implying that none of that happened?"

Santana shakes her head and Brittany puts a hand on her arm, mumbling something that sounds a lot like, "San, don't."

But Santana says, "You think she did those things because you were friends?"

Your stomach is upside-down. Or that's what it feels like, anyway. Even if it doesn't make sense.

"Why else would she have?"

You can feel the train hurdling forward through the spiraling trees and blackened outskirts of New York.

It makes you feel sick.

Santana laughs again and now it's Kurt who's piping in.

"Seriously, Santana, just drop it."

She shakes her head. "No, no. I mean, it's over, right? Q won't mind. Not like they ever have to spend time together anymore."

Clearly you're missing something—some information that the others are privy to.

"W-What?" you ask, the word catching a little.

Santana turns and looks you square in the eye. At the edge of your vision, you're aware of the others sitting on the edges of their seats, Blaine quietly saying, " _Stop_ ," and Brittany saying, "San," again.

But then, "Quinn's in love with you, Booster Seat."

Contrary to what you'd expect, there is no pause after these words—no hesitation to let the dust settle, allow you time to breathe.

Santana continues on quickly with, "Or was. Fuck, I don't even know anymore. That's why she did those things. Not because she wanted to be besties and braid your hair. It was like...so pathetic. All through high school, her vying for your affections. Not worth it. No wonder she boxed you out. Took her long enough."

" _Santana,"_ Kurt says harshly.

He looks at you but you're staring at the floor of the train and getting dizzy.

"Her and Puck lasted all of one month. He told me she said there was 'someone else' when she broke up with him. Guess who she meant? And now that you're back here stirring up long-lost love, or whatever, I think it'll be hella amusing to see how this goes."

Here's the part with the hesitation—a little late, but at least it showed up at all. The silence stretches to an impossible length.

There's nothing for you to say.

Because, of course, Santana is lying.

She's getting under your skin and Quinn was absolutely your friend at one point.

Friends drift apart. It's natural, what with time and distance and other obligations.

It's just Santana pulling your leg.

Nothing more.

"Great, you broke her!" Kurt says.

Santana sighs and you hear her slump back in her seat. "Whatever. Worth it."

.

The rest of the train ride is spent in silence.

You don't rush off once it stops, though, and, instead, wait patiently for your roommates to find a cab.

"Rachel?" Kurt says when you're in the apartment. "Are you okay?"

He looks genuinely concerned, as does Blaine, but you just smile.

Nod.

Because, contrary to what Santana may have said, you _are_ a good actress.

"I'm perfectly fine, Kurt," you say.

He looks warily relieved, like he wants to believe you but can't quite get there. "Are you sure? I mean, Santana…You know how she is."

You nod again. "I know."

They stare at you as though it's an unfinished thought that they want you to resolve.

But you just say, "Goodnight," and disappear into your room, closing the door firmly behind you.

.

You consider calling Quinn that night—stare at her number in your phone, thumb hovering over the screen.

You want to ask if Santana was lying, want to hear Quinn laugh and say that Santana is ridiculous—of course she's not in love with you.

Because that wouldn't make sense.

It wouldn't explain the way she used to look at you in high school, that time before her accident when you were certain she was going to cry, but couldn't fathom why.

It's not as if Quinn being in love with you clarifies every moment you've shared with her over the past seven years—the name calling that was so eerily similar to the experiences Kurt shared with you regarding his own and Karofsky's.

Of course not.

You want to hear her say it.

But it's ringing in your ears— _We're not really friends_.

And end up tossing your phone into one of your many open and unpacked boxes near your bed.

You wonder what Finn would have said if he'd been on that train with you. If he would have scoffed or nodded seriously, told you, "She _is_ ," with conviction.

You wonder if he'd be bothered by it, or maybe he'd seriously consider it.

Maybe he'd say, "That makes sense," and you wouldn't know if he was talking about Quinn loving you or you, hypothetically, thinking that you could love her back.

You don't sleep very well.

.

It's easy to fall back into the routine you'd set for yourself over the past half a month.

Wake up, breakfast, clean, attempt to unpack, vocal runs, tea, clean, unpack.

It's mindless, thoughtless.

Busy work.

It's not like you wonder if Quinn is faring any better with her unpacking than you are when you realize you don't have enough dresser or closet space for your clothes.

Not as if your fingertips feel warm when you remember her gaze, heavy on your face as she regarded you the night before, watched you from her seat on a crate filled with her books.

It's _Quinn_.

The same Quinn who once applauded and laughed when a fellow cheerleader had tripped you in the cafeteria your freshman year.

Who sat in the waiting room with you at the doctor's office when you wanted her nose, flipping through magazines and being more supportive than anyone else in your life at that moment.

Who told you to wait to have sex and yelled at you in a bridal shop, took a train to your apartment to hold an intervention and didn't say a word to you when you returned the year after when you though glee club was over forever.

There's no dramatic shift or plot twist.

Nothing has changed.

.

"Rachel, this is Tim. Tim, Rachel."

Kurt introduces you with a particularly flamboyant hand gesture at the reasonably tall, brunette man beside him.

"He's that shift leader I told you about," Kurt says and you smile politely.

"The only one you don't want to kill?" you ask and Tim laughs at this.

"Good to know," he tells Kurt.

Kurt grins. "That's Blaine over there, my hubby. Say hi, Blaine."

Blaine waves from where he's lying on the couch, looking exhausted.

He'd been gone since seven that morning and had only just returned two minutes before Kurt waltzed in with Tim.

You imagine that it must be tiring, offering perfume samples to uninterested New Yorkers in one of the most famous retail outlets in the country.

You'd be dead on your feet, too.

"I'm gonna go get dinner ready. Come help me, Rachel?"

Tim crosses the room to sit in the empty chair near the couch, returning the greeting Blaine sends his way while you're led to the kitchen by Kurt.

"So?" he asks, pulling out a pot from underneath the sink and filling it with water.

"So, what?" you return, crossing your arms and leaning back against the counter.

"He's cute, right?" he prompts. "You think he's cute. He thinks you're cute. I could tell from the way he totally eye-screwed you, honey."

You grimace at his phrasing.

"What?" he asks, spotting your expression as he sets the pot on the stove and turns on the burner. "You don't think he's cute? He's totally your type."

"My type?" you ask, frowning.

"Sure! Tall, handsome. Brunette. American prince-y. You know."

"What does 'American prince' mean? Wouldn't that be against the Constitution?"

He waves away the question. "I totally thought you'd like him."

He adds salt and pasta to the water.

"Is that why you brought him over?" You glance down at your running shorts and frown. "If I'd known you were setting me up with someone, I might have dressed better than this."

"Oh, please. You're adorable."

As he waits for the pasta to cook, he frowns and taps his chin thoughtfully with his forefinger. "I really thought you'd like him."

"Hey, I never said I _don't_ like him."

"Yeah, but you have that face," Kurt says.

"What face?"

"That like…disappointed frown." He pauses, stirring quietly. "Will you just give him a shot? You're bumming me out with all your moping. You need something to do until school starts." He smirk. "Or some _one_."

You sigh and think about Tim, this—okay, _reasonably_ attractive—young man, sitting in the living room and wonder what Quinn would say about him.

 _He seems nice_ , maybe. Or, _I don't know, Rachel. You could do better._

"He likes _Wicked_ ," Kurt throws in, as if this is a deal breaker and the exact comment that will send you swooning into his coworker's arms.

You scoff. "Who doesn't?"

.

"So, what do you do?" Tim asks at dinner, while Blaine and Kurt are conveniently discussing something that, apparently, only they can be a part of.

You run your finger around the edge of your wine glass. "Um, well…nothing right now. School."

Tim bobs his head. "What school?"

"Uh, NYADA."

Another nod.

"That's awesome. Do you want to perform?"

This is almost like that episode of _Friends—_ the one where Rachel finds out that Ross is in love with her. She's on the date with that jerk and she keeps imagining Ross there, making fun of him, kissing her.

If Quinn had heard that comment, Rachel's certain that she wouldn't have held in a mean nickname—"moron", "idiot."

Okay, that's not fair. She would have. But she would have overcompensated for leaving it out by being extra condescending.

"That's the plan."

"That's great. I, um…I saw that one play. The one with the green girl."

You laugh and try your best not to sound bitter. " _Wicked._ "

His eyes light up. "Yeah! That was cool. Lot of great dancing."

He's not wrong.

Still, you think Quinn would comment on it more deeply than that—say something about how successful it was in turning the deeply horrific and gritty novel into something that children can watch without being scarred. She might say that she enjoys everything but the hyper-importance of Fiyero in the musical versus the novel.

Something like that. Tangible. Deeper.

You smile. "Yeah, it's pretty great," you say.

You take an extra large gulp of wine.

"So, what does your boyfriend think about you performing?"

You almost laugh right in his face.

It's so cliché.

What guy from a television show or romantic comedy _hasn't_ used that line to find out if a girl is single?

Still, you humor him. "Uh, well...I'm sure my boyfriend would be supportive if he existed. Otherwise, why would I hypothetically date him?"

Tim chuckles. "Excellent point."

It's not as if Tim is dull, you think looking him up and down. There's nothing really wrong with him.

It's just something you can't really pinpoint.

He reminds you of Sam a little.

Well, Sam and Finn.

He's basically they're child, you think. If they'd had one.

Quinn would love that.

If you were friends, you'd tell her because she'd maybe smile against her will and then get grossed out, shove you playfully. Tell you to quit it.

The thought makes you grin at the ridiculousness of it.

"What's funny?" Tim asks.

You shrug. "Nothing, really."

"Okay." He pauses. "Do you think you'd wanna get coffee sometime?"

It's then that you remember Rachel telling Ross to go away—Ross telling her to stop thinking about him if that's what she really wanted.

You can see it. Quinn standing in front of you, as close as she can get without touching you and saying, "Are you attracted to me?"

You're not sure how you'd answer that.

Because Quinn isn't in love with you.

But imagining Quinn that close has you flustered, a heat on the back of your neck that you're certain is burning through your throat.

You wonder how soft her skin is, what it would be like to bury your fingers in her hair, tug her close.

You imagine her lips on yours.

"Are you okay? You look sick."

Tim looks concerned.

You shake your head—not in answer, but to clear it.

"Yeah, I'm fine," you lie.

Your voice sounds squeaky and Kurt is looking at you oddly from across the table.

"Okay," Tim says. He sounds like he's uncertain.

You want to change the subject, so you grasp onto the first thing you can think of.

"What's working at Starbucks like?" you ask, even though you've already heard all about it from Kurt.

Tim makes a face and sighs, but at least he starts talking so you won't have to.

.

"Were you kidding?"

Santana looks at you like you're crazy, her hand still rested on the door as she stares at you, standing in the hallway outside of her apartment. "How the hell do you know where I live?" she asks.

You don't tell her about beating the address out of Kurt once Tim had left, nor do you mention hopping into a cab once you'd gotten it and coming straight here.

Minor details.

"Were you kidding, Santana?"

"What about?"

She's playing difficult. It's obvious. She's got that look—like someone holding a toy over a cat, just out of jumping distance.

"For once in your life, Santana, don't play stupid."

You push past her, into the apartment and stand by her couch, cocking your hip so that she knows you mean business.

"Come right in," she says sarcastically, closing the door and turning to face you. "About Quinn? Why does it matter?"

"Because I deserve to know if you're just jerking my chain or if she really is in love with me."

" _Was._ "

You can feel your heart beating in your arms, legs, neck. "So you were serious, then?"

Santana sighs. "Look, Berry, what do you want me to say? You burned that bridge. It's over. Just move on, okay? Quinn has."

"She has?"

You shouldn't have asked that.

Santana is smirking now. "No fucking way." She moves a few feet closer, looking almost predatory.

"What?" you ask, taking one step back.

"You're so fucking stupid sometimes, Berry."

"Hey—" you start, anger spiking under your skin, but she cuts you off.

"No, seriously. It's been, what? Almost eight years? And you're just now figuring it out."

"What are you talking about, Santana?"

"You wanna taste of the Q-Ball, don't you, Rachie? I bet the thought of getting under her Sunday school teacher dresses gets you all hot and bothered, doesn't it?"

You stare at her, mouth slightly agape, but, are saved from answering by Brittany, who comes out of the bathroom at that moment, brushing her teeth.

"'Ey, Ray-hel," she greets.

You smile at her briefly.

"Wah-up?"

"Britts, this is great. Berry literally _just_ figured out that she wants to lady-bone Quinn. It's absolutely adorable."

Brittany frowns around her toothbrush. "San-tada! I tol' 'oo tah stah!"

She rushes back into the bathroom and you can hear the sound of running water just above the sound of her spitting.

When she comes back, she looks angry and Santana, at least, has the decency to look afraid.

"Stop teasing her."

"I'm just having a little fun. Been waiting like four years for her to figure it out."

You make a face. "I don't know what you are talking about. I am not romantically inclined towards Quinn, let me assure you."

"Okay, you must be—" Santana holds her hand up above your head. "—this tall to participate in this conversation."

"I'm gonna divorce you," Brittany threatens, not looking the least bit like she means it despite her stern pose.

"You would never."

Brittany's expression breaks a bit. "Okay, no. Never. But stop being mean to Rachel."

"No promises."

"Okay, can we get back to what I was talking about, please?" you cut in, trying out your best frustrated look when they turn to you. "Santana, you weren't kidding?"

"Have you heard literally anything I've just said?" she asks. "No, I wasn't kidding. Trying to freak you out and make you have some sort of existential crisis, sure. But I wasn't kidding."

Okay. Your stomach bottoms out.

There's no other way to describe it.

You imagine Quinn kissing you on the balcony of Monica and Rachel's apartment, pressing into your body, hands on your hips.

Something stirs where your stomach used to be, but it's a different feeling than before.

"What do I do?" you ask, because you're not certain.

It's _Quinn_.

You love her and you want her to be close, but you never used to imagine her kissing you—never thought about it as an option, a route your relationship with her could take.

Okay, maybe you'd entertained the idea once or twice on days when she wore blue and her eyes looked almost golden, or that time when she'd stared at you, unabashedly, in the choir room after that song—after dancing and singing and making you have to press your thighs together tightly in a way no performance of Finn's had ever forced you to—and told you to let Finn go without saying that exactly.

So, alright. You've thought about it more than you've ever admitted before this moment.

Santana and Brittany go to speak at the same time—Santana with her, "The hell should I know?" and Brittany with her, "Flowers!"

"She said we weren't friends," you tell them, head lowered and Brittany moves over to you, places a warm palm on your shoulder.

"Because you weren't," Santana reminds you, but Brittany shakes her head.

"Maybe you could be," she says and you look up at her. "Like…maybe you could start over. Become friends? It's not like you don't care about each other."

She's just trying to pacify you, but it's helping.

"Quinn's a big fan of second chances," Brittany says.

You nod. "Okay. Yeah. Okay."

When you leave a few minutes later, you're still nauseous and thinking about Quinn's lips, her eyes and the set of her mouth when she hadn't said goodbye to you.

But it's better.

Because you have an idea.

.

After this, you really have to stop just showing up at people's apartments, you decide, as you listen to the sound of the call ringing in.

Your legs hurt after another two hours on a train and your purse feels heavy with cargo.

To your immense surprise, Quinn answers.

"Hello?"

Her voice makes you feel like butterfly wings, a frightened bird—flapping, fluttering, flying away.

"Are you home?"

Quinn pauses.

You can hear her breathing.

"Rachel?"

"Are you home, Quinn?" you repeat.

She sighs. "Yes."

"Would you mind coming outside, please?"

Another pause.

"Sure."

She sounds tired, resigned.

But she hangs up and you wait—bounce on the balls of your feet and watch the door of the complex.

When Quinn finally comes out, it's different than you imagined.

For one, you're not at an airport and Quinn has not unexpectedly acquired a beautiful girlfriend since the last time you saw her.

But she also stares at you. Deeply.

It's that way she always has and you've never really thought about it, but now that you know, it feels chilling. Scary.

You feel on edge.

On display.

"Hey," you say.

She gives you a polite smile. "Hi."

You wait for her to stop looking at you like that, to look away, but it's like her eyes are glued there.

If you could find the words, you'd tell her to stop. This isn't helping your ability to breathe or figure out what is going on, what you're feeling.

You grab the hem of your shorts with your hands and almost hate the way the evening light is spreading shadows over her arms, her face.

Your fingers ache from the strain of your grip.

It feels like sinking—quick sand. You want to tether yourself and it's something you're not used to.

You want her to pull you close and kiss you, or just press her forehead to yours, give you some of her warmth.

When your throat doesn't feel as dry, you say, "Do you…uh, do you have time to talk?"

Quinn looks taken by surprise, but she nods and starts off down the sidewalk.

You have to sprint for a few steps to keep up.

.

A few blocks over is a park that isn't really a park—just a few benches on cobblestone and a couple of picnic tables. Something straight out of a Pixar short.

There's a sandbox in the corner—a lonely, solitary sandbox. The only proof that children exist in this particular neighborhood, but the sand is still, even.

Unused.

It smells like wasted time and nostalgic things you don't want to give the satisfaction of thinking about.

Quinn sits at a picnic table and you sit across from her, crossing your legs at the ankle.

It smells like cigarette butts and pollen and you almost sneeze.

It's dim and you wonder when the streetlights will flicker on.

Quinn picks at a dead leaf on the table.

You wonder how often she comes here, because it's the first place she brought you and you're suddenly terrified.

Like you were on the train, in Santana and Brittany's apartment, that moment between the station and the taxi when you were rethinking everything.

"What did you want to talk about?" Quinn asks.

She's not looking at you—eyes fixed somewhere else, distant and away.

You wonder if it's you that's making her look that way, that brought that expression there.

"I, um, I got these."

From your purse, you pull out an envelope and slide it over to her.

She looks at it like she's been hollowed out and you bite your lip, wait for her to speak.

"I, um…you never told me how expensive these things are."

She stays quiet, fingers pressed into the worn wood of the table beside the envelope, just staring at it like she's afraid to touch it.

"You said once that you wanted to keep in touch and I kind of…I threw it back in your face. I thought I'd…be the one to try this time."

Quinn opens her mouth to say something, and, when it comes, you aren't really expecting the, "Why?"

You know the answer, though. But it's not a good one, maybe not one she'd buy.

Because you've been given so many chances with her—the both of you have with each other—and it always ends the same way.

It's selfish, but you want to tell her that you know, ask if it really is true. That you know and you don't care.

Because maybe you want this, too. Want her.

"Are you actually going to use it this time?"

She's looking at you now, and you feel angry. Like you're being spread thin.

"That's not fair," you say. "It's not as if you used them either."

The angriest look you've seen in years appears on her face, making you want to get up and run away or reverse time.

Take it back.

You stand your ground.

"I offered so many times, Rachel," she tells you. She doesn't sound angry, even though her expression says otherwise. "And you kept saying, 'next weekend, Quinn, next weekend, I'm so swamped."

You're dumbfounded and selfish.

You remember that.

Saying those things.

You'd wanted her to come, wanted so badly to show her NYADA and New York, wake up to her on your couch and eat breakfast with her at your table.

But you were busy—with Finn, with Brody, with Cassandra and then Funny Girl.

You were so scared of bringing Quinn into your messy life, of letting her see that the person she'd once told could do anything was wasting it all on boys and drama.

Again.

So you'd pushed her away.

This is all your fault.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

She says, "Are you?"

You are. Because she's given you the world—tried to, anyway.

She's been there since she went through everything with Beth.

And you've never given her anything in return but fractured moments and empty promises.

Why should she believe you?

You don't deserve her.

This was stupid and you don't deserve her after all these years.

You hadn't even known this was going on behind her walls.

Or you had been aware and just didn't want to do anything about it, didn't know what to do about it.

You've taken without thinking—her support, her trust, her advice and this strange, unconditional love despite it all.

And you've given her nothing.

"I am," you say, nodding. You can feel the pain of tears starting up. "Quinn, I'm…I'm so sorry."

"Okay."

"Can we…be friends now?"

Quinn takes a breath. She says, "We can try."

It comes out emotionless, flat. She's looking away again and you hate the way her eyes look so stiff, like glass.

You reach out without thinking, needing the warmth of her arm under your fingers.

To your utter surprise, she doesn't pull away.

You want to tell her how you're figuring it out now—that maybe this has just been one big dance that you've been leading without realizing, orchestrating. That it's been so far pushed down that you weren't even aware until an outside party came in and shook you and said, _Look, look at all of this, all of this love._

"I was getting over you," Quinn whispers.

If Santana hadn't told you, if you hadn't figured it out, it's likely that you would have heard that in a different context.

"I need you to actually try this time," this she says a bit louder, needing you to hear it.

You want to tell her that you're sure—that you need her to be in your life the way you used to think she was.

That you need an actual friendship, not a pass-off of good deeds between two blind, stupid teenagers.

You want to tell her you're sorry that Finn blinded you for so long, that he still is there, in the back of your head all the time. That you're sorry he won't ever go away completely.

You're not sure you can let those years with him go, because you're not sure you're ready for compromising and changing.

But she was always there and it's on the tip of your tongue to tell her that you've always envied her hair, how soft it looked. That you used to watch her in class, dutifully taking notes with her bangs tucked behind her ears or her high ponytail bobbing with her arm as she wrote.

How you used to think of her as one of your closest friends—besides Kurt—and you never said anything because you thought she felt the same.

That the idea of her having feelings for you is terrifying.

That you're not sure what to say because of that fear and, possibly, too much equivalence.

For the first time in your life, though, you find the words.

Shaky and unsure, but they make themselves heard.

You say what you really need to, not just what you're thinking—what's expected.

Quinn watches you, listens with her arm under the press of your fingers and then you just sit there, looking at each other.

You look around. The sun went down at some point and it's amazing that you didn't notice.

Quinn lifts her hand and gently brushes it over your hand, on her arm.

You're so cold all of a sudden.

So cold that you almost shiver.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, fingers brushing up against her palm.

You really are.

.

She drives you to the train station with a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.

You almost ask to stay, if only so you can see what she looks like in the morning—so you can stop imagining it when you wake up and stretch your arms above your head, eyes on the empty side of your bed.

The drive is long and it's dark outside, quiet, but the silence in the car is greater.

As much time as it seems to take to get there, you're still surprised when she pulls up beside it.

You look at it and don't move for a while.

Quinn doesn't look at you.

"Well, thanks for seeing me," you say quietly.

She glances your way. "Yeah."

"I'll, uh…Can I talk to you? Like call you or text you?"

She's staring at you and you're almost able to hate the way the glow from the street lamp outside the car hits her eyes.

She nods.

"Okay. Goodnight."

You unbuckle and get out of the car, pausing with the door open.

The lights that turn on with the open door are harsh and make Quinn look ragged in the driver's seat.

"Goodnight, Rachel," she says.

She pulls away the minute you're inside the station.

.

"Where were you?" Kurt asks when you get home.

From the look on his face, your non-answer serves as enough of an answer.

"Oh, honey," he says. "It's not your fault."

You don't cry, but you let him hug you anyway.

.

Tim calls you a few days later and asks you if you'd like to get some coffee.

He makes a joke about not wanting to go to Starbucks for it.

It's so easy to tell him no when you remember the way Quinn's knees had knocked against yours under the picnic table.

He seems understanding.

"Maybe some other time," he offers.

"Yeah," you say. "Maybe."

.

You text Quinn that night, just to ask her how she is.

She responds more quickly than you'd anticipated.

It's almost like your emails at the beginning of your freshman year.

 _Thank you for trying,_ she says and you smile, bite your lip.

 _I want you in my life, Quinn. Of course I'm going to try,_ is what you say in return and you can feel it now, that click that wasn't there before.

This is what was missing.

.

"Not that I care, but how did it go?" Santana asks at brunch one day, glancing over at her wife, who is picking at her bacon and nodding at whatever Kurt is saying.

"It's none of your business."

She scoffs. "Of course it is. I'm the one who did the nudging that made you go over there in the first place, aren't I? I deserve to know."

You shrug and tear up part of your biscuit on the plate. "We're trying."

"Trying what?" She pauses. "If the answer is 'nerdy sex', keep it to yourself, please."

You frown. "To be friends," you clarify. "Real friends this time."

She laughs a little, but it doesn't sound malicious—just sad. "We'll see how that goes for poor Quinnie."

Her words feel like a piece of hot coal in your lungs.

You twist your lips and look away.

"That's not how I meant it," Santana says, barely a whisper.

You look over at her.

"I just…Be careful with her, okay? She's…Lord, Berry, she's just like held a torch for you for years," she tells you, looking sad. "This could crush her."

If you didn't think she'd slap you away, you might hug her, thank her for watching out for Quinn like that—caring about her enough.

Because clearly Quinn needs it, what with you always screwing things up.

You bump her knee with yours under the table. "I'm not going to hurt her again. I promise."

Santana looks unconvinced, but she still nods, says, "Okay."

.

The second time you use your Metro pass, Quinn is actually expecting you.

She picks you up at the train station, smiling in lieu of a hug and offers to carry your overnight bag.

At her apartment, she gives you the tour, asking that you not take pictures or touch anything on the way. The tour takes five minutes total.

And the only reason it goes on _that_ long is because she pauses to give brief descriptions of strange things, like her hairbrush in the bathroom—"As you can see, it has many a blonde hair in it."—or her Peter Pan pillow cases on her bed—"If you can believe it, those were on sale."

She looks lighter, almost. Like she doesn't have to be as stiff around you anymore, but there's something there every time she looks at you—a deep apprehension of something else, maybe the fear that you'll realize you don't want her in your life after all.

You wish you could make it disappear.

"Sorry about the mess," she says while you wait for the food you ordered to arrive.

She kicks at a disorganized pile of shoes by the doors in an attempt to rearrange them.

"You know, I knew you had a flaw somewhere," you say, smiling at her.

She laughs. It's the most relaxed you've seen her in years, the most comfortable she's been with you ever, maybe.

"It's actually my _only_ flaw," she jokes. "Sorry to disappoint."

Dinner is quiet and full of potential. You can see doing this every weekend until she graduates—coming to see her, sitting on the couch beside her, eating take out and watching movies.

Her air conditioning kicks on halfway through _Clueless_ and Quinn notices, frowns at you.

"Here," she says, picking up an old Cheerios sweatshirt from a pile of clothes by the couch, tossing it to you.

You hesitate, gently pinching it between your fingers until she says, "Seriously, Rachel, you're cold."

So you slip it on, tug the sleeves down around your palms and look at her, trace the slope of her neck and the cut of her jaw as she smiles, sadly. As if the very sight of you in her clothes is breaking her heart.

You wait for her to say something, to confirm what Santana told you and the others seemed to believe without much hesitation.

But she just says, "Looks better on you."

She turns back to the movie and you wish you could just reach between this wall between the two of you and touch her knee or bring her closer.

Bridge the gap.

But you're so afraid of scaring her off that you don't.

.

You don't share her bed that night, but the couch is comfortable and she's making coffee when you wake up.

There's a few hours of talking quietly, basic catching up, and she drives you to the train station again.

"Thank you for having me," you say when she puts her car in park.

You're still wearing her sweater even though it's close to eighty degrees outside, but she hasn't commented on it or asked for it back.

"It was nice," you throw in.

She nods. "Yeah, it was," she says, and she looks like she believes it.

"We should do it again soon."

It's almost like you're trapped in this perpetual goodbye sequence, stuck saying the same things over and over until you find the right combination of words.

"Yeah, definitely."

You bite your lip. It's sore already from your constant picking at it these past few hours. "Okay, well, goodbye, then."

You open the door and make to get out, but she stops you by saying, "Rachel, wait, I…I know that we're trying to be friends again and that…you know, I care about you a lot, you know that right?"

You're biting your lip again, waiting for her to say that this is over.

There it is. You tried. You failed. Again.

"I just…I need you to know that I'm really trying, okay? I am. I'm sorry if I'm distant or weird, it's just…I spent so long, Rachel…And I was so _close_ to being over you. But…"

She sighs, shakes her head like there's no way to finish that thought.

"I'm glad you actually came," she whispers, looking down at the steering wheel. "I lo—" Your breath catches, but she just shakes away that sentence and replaces it with, "—really missed you," almost seamlessly.

But you know what she meant.

Maybe you mean it back.

You reach out and press your hand against her shoulder, resisting the urge to dig your nails in and latch on.

You're thinking of how you've strung her along for years without meaning to, of the necklace with Finn's name that's lying on your dresser at home and it's that image that keeps you from saying anything other than, "I missed you, too, Quinn."

.

She comes to New York the week before your classes start up.

It's a last night of freedom, Santana says and you're pretty sure she only invites you to make things awkward.

Kurt glances between you and Quinn for the entire meal, especially when you speak in the general direction of one other—which isn't often.

You're still stepping around each other carefully. You're so scared that you'll scare her off still, that she'll bolt and decide that you don't deserve another shot after all.

That hasn't happened yet.

But the way Kurt is looking at you doesn't exactly make you feel better.

"How have you been, Quinn?" Blaine asks when the appetizers arrive. "Get settled in?"

Quinn smiles at him and you're pretty sure it's genuine. "Yeah, settled in just fine."

"That's good," Blaine responds.

You're not positive, but you're pretty sure she glances at you before she says, "Yeah."

.

She's staying with Santana and Brittany that night and, when she says goodbye after dinner, she hugs you too this time.

.

When classes start, you're so busy that you wish you had time to think about things, do things other than practice and more practice.

You still talk to Quinn—on the phone sometimes now, too.

Make plans to visit again.

You imagine yourself in your apartment again, helping her decorate her blank, white walls with pictures, posters. Forcing her to go get groceries with you so that you know she gets some food that isn't completely processed.

It's easy to picture watching movies on her couch with your legs propped up on her coffee table, maybe dropping your head to her shoulder next time.

Or her coming to you, sleeping in your bed beside you and waking up sometime after you have, yawning and stretching with messy hair.

You can feel the press of her lips to yours when she thanks you for washing dishes or making dinner—her heartbeat when you fall asleep against her chest.

You think that, maybe, you'd go to that park again and just sit there and talk, maybe hold hands or kiss when there's no one around.

Or driving back to Lima together so she can see her mom for Christmas, helping her mom in the kitchen with dinner, or introducing her to your fathers—officially—for the first time, without letting go of her hand.

Trying to distract her when she has a paper to write by replacing the laptop on her thighs with your own body, moving yourself down so that you're a firm pressure against her. Kissing her cheeks, her nose, her jaw, her lips.

She'd sigh and say, "Fine," like she was resigned to it, like it's a punishment, before pressing you down into the bed and covering you with her body until you're warm and steady and grounded.

Finn wouldn't mind you moving on—smiling or laughing with Quinn—because at least you'd be smiling and laughing.

He'd want that for you.

And you could be happy, you think.

You could make each other happy.

.

This is the last time, you decide, when you're standing outside of her apartment door and knocking.

Really it is.

No more spontaneous visits to anyone after this.

Because the train ride is long, even if it's worth it, and you have classes tomorrow but it's been over two weeks since you last saw her and maybe you didn't used to be friends, didn't need to see her all the time, but things have changed.

You can hear her inside, moving around and closer to the door.

On the phone earlier, she'd said she was tired already and laughed like Yale wasn't hard, like her courses were easy.

She has her eight o'clock class in the morning—something about literary theory—and it's almost ten at night right now, so you know you shouldn't be here.

But you can't do it anymore.

Can't keep pretending to be making a choice when you've known without knowing what your answer was all along.

And you need to see her, need to feel her body against yours, her smooth skin and her fingertips on your hips, thighs, stomach. Her mouth against your neck and jaw.

You need to feel her sleeping beside you and be able to run your hands through her hair as she wraps a loose arm around you. Need to hear her say that she loves you, out loud—whisper it into your ears, your mouth, your bones.

You need her. Always have. And you need this to start right now so you knock again, louder, more insistent.

Footsteps get closer and then the door opens.

Quinn doesn't seemed too surprised to see you standing there, but she does give you an inquisitive look.

"Rachel, wha—?" she starts, but you shake your head, take a step forward so that you're brushing against her body, breathing her air.

You say, "I love you, too."

…

 **references:**

"The One Where Rachel Finds Out" – Friends, 1x24

"Wicked" – the stage production

possibly others that i'm forgetting.


End file.
